Lost In The Mail
by ExLibris3
Summary: Jenny receives a letter - eight years too late. Written for the Jenny Jenny challenge on NFA


A/N: Written for the Jenny Jenny challenge on NFA. Jen POV. Jibbs hints. Please review!

**Lost in the mail**

I flip the envelope in my hands, a crease of puzzlement wrinkles my forehead as my eyes set upon the French stamp. I do have contacts in France, but I am certainly not expecting a handwritten letter from any of them. I check the address again, just to be sure it's for me, and it sure says my name and address. Something about the handwriting feels oddly familiar, but I cannot place it, but I'm certain I have seen it before.

I leave the rest of my mail on the little table by my front door, and – still turning the letter in my hands – I move into my study. I close my eyes as I enter, I've always loved the way it smells in here – a mixture of old books, leather and liquor – in certain places there is also the lingering scent of cigar smoke, reminding me of the times I spent in here with my father. Pushing those thoughts aside – I can never help it that they sneak into my mind every time I enter this room, it's just filled with too many memories – I sink into the chair behind the desk, placing the envelope in front of me.

Still enchanted by the stamp, and something in the back of my head knows whose handwriting that is, I open the top drawer and take out a letter opener. Not sure what to be expecting, I cut open the envelope and withdraw a folded paper. It's slightly thicker than the envelope, and a smell oozes from it, a smell I recognize all too well, my brain suddenly snaps, and immediately ties together the smell and the handwriting.

But it's not possible, I think, staring at the folded piece of paper in front of me. _If_ this letter is from the man I am connecting the smell and handwriting with – I caress the Parisian stamp with my thumb – how did that fit into the picture? Because I'm sure – in fact I _know_ – that he is not in Paris, and haven't been there in a long time. But how many other men I know carries the smell of coffee, bourbon, and sawdust? Why the stamp? To tease me about the time long lost? And why the hell would _he _even get the thought of writing me a letter? Am I missing something here?

The scent mixes with the ones already in this room, making me almost dizzy with their silent whisperings from the past. Each whispering tells a story of its own, but for the moment I focus on the one seeping from the letter.

My hands tremble slightly as I pick up the letter, preparing myself to unfold it and uncover its secret.

I am prepared for almost everything, yet a gasp of surprise escapes through my lips when my eyes skim over the handwritten page.

I rise abruptly, walk over to the liquor cabinet and pour myself a glass of bourbon; I have a strong feeling I'm gonna need it. My hand still clutches the container, I contemplate for a second, and then bring it with me back to the desk, I think I'm going to need a refill for this one.

Putting on my glasses, I once again let my eyes wander over the text – checking if I had really gotten the date right the first time. Yes, I had. That is what shocks me the most about this letter. It's dated 28th of October, 1999.

I look at the bottom of the page, and find a name. _Jethro._

I think back – I needn't think hard, I have had that date fresh in my memory for eight years now. 22nd of September. That was the date I left him – I stare at the date on the paper – this had been written about a month after I left. Why? What had he wanted to tell me? I guess there's only one way to find out.

But how come it shows up now, eight years later? Talk about getting lost in the mail.

I draw a ragged breath, and begin to read. I have to take a large mouth of bourbon already at the end of the first sentence _I've been trying for a month to figure out why you left, but I haven't yet come up with an answer that makes sense._ I keep reading. There are parts where his hand appears to have been shaking violently, the ink smudged out, and sometimes I have to strain my eyes to make out the words. Sometimes it's just rambles, and that's not like Jethro. Jethro doesn't ramble. And the emotions he pours out onto this piece of paper, that doesn't seem like him either. _I can't for the world understand why the hell I just let you walk away. Screw your plan. Screw work. Why can't you just stay with me? Didn't I make it perfectly clear how I feel for you? What else do you need, Jen? A wedding ring?_ – the words 'wedding ring' are so smudged out and shaky I can barely make them out. I'm starting to understand why there is such a strong scent of bourbon surrounding this letter, I doubt Jethro would have written this stuff if he was sober. I keep reading. _It has been a month, if you come back – or at least call when you read this – I will gladly get you that ring, Jen. Because I love you. _

That required another swig of bourbon.

I read the rest of his writings. More emotional ramblings. The whole things ends with: _It was never my intention to fall in love with you, but I did, and I want you to know I'm not giving you up without a fight. Love, Jethro._

I swallow a great lump that began to take form in my throat. More bourbon. I hadn't realized I am still clutching the glass tightly in my hand, the liquor gone and my hand instantly shots out toward the container.

When I sip it, I'm being assaulted with memories – memories of me and Jethro, drinking together, that I more often than not could taste bourbon in his mouth when I kissed him, the conversations we shared until the alcohol took over in our minds and we forgot all about words, let our bodies express our feelings for us.

I glare at the beverage accusingly; it's unknowing of what pain it causes me to remember all this. But I cannot give it up. I don't know if I'm addicted to the liquor, or the vivid memories it conjures up. It's a connection to Jethro, one that doesn't go away so easily. Once you've gotten used to it, it sticks with you, for the rest of your life. Much like the memories of your one true love.

_Call__ when you read this._

A soft, lonely laugh reverberates in the room; it's gone almost as suddenly as it came. I smile sadly at that sentence, can't help but to wonder what he'd say if I did call him. He most likely didn't even recall writing this letter; much less think that he actually sent it.

I reach out and turn on the lamp, only now realizing how dark it's becoming. A low thunder is heard far away; the first heavy raindrops scatter against the window pane.

I re-read the letter. And once again. The fact that he wrote this while drunk allows me to see him from a different perspective, the feelings he'd never admit when sober. Allow me to see the feelings that, despite his drunken state, still existed within him. I wonder what could have happened if he'd shared a little more from that secret heart of his. I wonder what I would have done if I had gotten that letter eight years ago. I'd like to think I would have called, put everything right with him, but I know who I was back then, and if I had already left him once – even though reluctantly – I doubt I would have called him, re-open the old wounds. I had shut the door to that relationship, as hard as it was to keep it closed; I dismissed any thoughts about him as I climbed my way upwards. Much as I know I still loved him, I don't know if a confession like this in the letter would have changed me. But I know I have changed now, and this letter cause me too much pain, thinking about what I had done, and what I could have done.

I rise from my seat, take the letter and envelope in my hand, and walk over to the fireplace. I sit down on the floor, take the matches and light a fire. The shoes are thrown away and I hug my knees to my chest. I stare into the flames, involuntarily recalling the past and all the ways I could have changed it. A past where choices had been made, choices I'm not very proud of. Leaving Jethro tops that list.

I pick up the letter and place on the floor next to me, read it through one last time, and make an attempt at throwing it onto the fire. My hand freezes mid-air, between me and the roaring fire.

Should I or should I not?

The past is still the past, and much as you wish it wasn't the case, it has to remain just that, the past.

I carefully fold the letter, put it back into the envelope and place it securely beside me, far away from the destructing flames.

Just because the past is lost, doesn't mean it should be forgotten.

Eight years is an awful long time for a letter to be astray, and even longer for a woman to wonder if she was ever loved at all.

Maybe I should call him, after all…

**The End**


End file.
